


we ourselves become

by Rayellah



Series: Self-Indulgent Genji One Shots [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff without Plot, Friends to Lovers, M/M, One Shot, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 19:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10315340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rayellah/pseuds/Rayellah
Summary: Later, they’ll construct an origin story. Because that’s what you do. Something about how Shimada Genji and Jesse McCree always felt the way they did for one another.That’s easier, after all, than describing the way a stranger becomes a friend, a friend becomes your beloved. Easier than describing how the organization that saved one’s life can become a home, rather than something that someone owes his life to.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is literally just self-indulgent cute mcgenji, by me for me. miiiiiight turn into a longer thing with a real plot.

Genji sits atop a ledge in Gibraltar, contemplative. He had come up here in search of something-- anything-- that might answer his question of _how should I feel about this?_ It’s like a hunger, the way he _wants_. The way he wants that answer. A hunger like he’s never had before.

Far down below, he spots a splash of red and a familiar hat-- Jesse McCree is not an unpleasant sight, and not one of the individuals he was dreading encountering, and that makes Genji relax somewhat. He doesn’t really know what McCree _did_ for Overwatch, before. Blackwatch rumors followed him like a shadow one couldn't shake off, and anyway, McCree has always said he was someone else entirely before Overwatch. It's an interesting thought, that of being someone else before an event. Shifting identities. He feels like he will always be what he is, now. No room for change. Change is for organic things.

He is distracted from the inevitability of that thought, however, when he leaps from atop that ledge, landing in front of McCree, and McCree just says, “Hey.” Ah, and a smile, warm and friendly as anything. Like the past few years never happened, and like he was Genji’s friend, before. Like they had been close, like any number of different things had or had not happened.

Not that Genji particularly… minds. The organization was bigger, before. There were a lot of people with whom he didn’t often speak.

“You looked a little surly,” McCree goes on, without waiting for Genji’s response, or even acknowledgement of his brief greeting. “Somethin’ on your mind?”

Genji is about to nod, then thinks better of it. Instead, he merely shakes his head. “I’m simply… readjusting to life at a Watchpoint.”

“You and me both,” McCree says, and if he knows that Genji isn’t saying all he feels, he doesn’t say so, and that’s all Genji could ask. Genji suspects there’s more to how McCree feels, too, but he won’t say so either.

Mediterranean summertime: sunlight dripping honey-lazy over rooftops and tree branches, the heat so sticky you can feel it on every inch of skin, or you could, if you had more than a few inches of skin. He wonders if he can ask McCree if he gets phantom limb even with a prosthetic in place.

“I hear you are to be accompanying us on the Nepal mission,” Genji says, because the topic is safe. Enough. Nothing here is ever truly safe but. _Enough._ That is the operative word, isn’t it? That is… something.

“Sure am,” McCree replies, and the response is subdued, somehow. There’s something beneath the cheerfulness. McCree was a mercenary, once, and then he was Overwatch, and then he was a mercenary again. Genji considered himself a _freelancer_ after the fall, thought the word worked better for him, but he supposes he was the same kind of thing, in a way. The point is this: it makes him good at reading a lot into a few words.

It almost sounds like curiosity, that off-tone in McCree’s voice. A question burning beneath the surface. And then McCree asks it, which throws Genji (perhaps he was not hiding anything, no plots-and-plans, no motives or potential uses for Genji simmering beneath the surface). “You spent a lot of time there, didn’tcha, Shimada?”

How he heard about that was anyone’s guess, but… well, no. His master’s presence wasn’t exactly keeping things hidden. Genji is used to yakuza-plots and Overwatch-plans, but this? What is this, anymore? He doesn’t know where he stands, doesn’t know what to think of any particular interaction.

In the past, during his last stint with Overwatch, he was not at peace with himself. He resented everything, and spent more time holed up in his head than he did reading or engaging with anyone else (people were confusing, their acceptance of him, here, felt uneven) and now? Well…

He regrets not making friends, before. He does not regret answering the recall. He does not regret any of that, really.

“Yes,” Genji says, finally, because he realizes he’s let the silence drag on for almost five seconds. Long enough to be awkward. Long enough to make things uncomfortable.

If McCree notices (McCree surely notices), he does not comment. Instead, he just continues on, plows through the awkward silences as easy as shooting bottles, “D’you miss it?”

“Sometimes. I follow my master, however, and understand his disagreements with the rest of the Shambali. I could have stayed, the monks told me the village was open to me. But my master’s opinions swayed me.”

“Disagreements…?” McCree presses. Gently, Genji notices. Room to shut the line of conversation down.

So he does. “That is for my master to discuss, or not discuss. Let me just reassure you that the disagreements were ideological, theological, and entirely peaceful, as far as I am aware.”

“So no second crisis starting from up in the Himalayas?” McCree jokes.

Genji laughs despite himself. “It is unlikely.”

\--

The sun is rising over the mountains as the newly-reformed and very-illegal Overwatch team approaches the monastery in Nepal. Genji had been present for the briefing, but still finds the situation frustratingly vague. _Mercenaries, dissidents, people who are opposed to the ideals of the Shambali have been harassing them._

This is not new. Humans are often suspicious of the monastery. Not all of them, of course. Probably not even many of them, if one were to take a count, but enough.

_The organization that assassinated Mondatta._

This is new, and the _Talon_ implication leaves itself like an aftertaste in Genji’s mouth, pepper and black licorice. There’s something Winston isn’t telling them, yet, he _knows_ that, but he doesn’t press. He knows Winston will come forward when it’s time. Winston is, after all, straightforward. Open. As honest as one can be, in this organization. There are other adjectives to use, but Genji feels those get the point across.

Across from him, McCree’s eyes are slightly narrowed as he peers out over the snowy scene on the way up the mountain. Mei, Reinhardt, Lena, and his master (because Zenyatta was never one to leave well enough alone) await the ship’s arrival in various spots around the two of them, but for the moment, Genji almost feels as if he and McCree are the only ones present.

( _Your brothers won’t love you for returning,_ Genji had told his master, very softly, as they prepared their gear for departure.

 _That’s not why I go back,_ Zenyatta had replied. _You know this._

 _Hey, fellas,_ McCree had said, loudly enough to let both of them know they’d spoken audibly enough for accidental eavesdropping, with an unspoken apology tucked in between those words.

If Genji’s palms were capable of sweating, they would have.)

\--

The fight is long, it is messy, but the monks and the pilgrims and the people of the village are unharmed at the end of it, however, and Genji considers this victory enough.

None of his team are dead, that is a victory as well. Small wounds only, already healed under his master’s care. 

One of the monks again offers Genji a place in the village. 

He nearly considers it, considers the fact that Overwatch is not what it once was, that he does not have a solid place in it anymore, no space carved out just for him, no personal mission, but McCree places a hand on his shoulder, as if sensing his discomfort and attempting to alleviate it.

Genji had not realized how much he missed the familiar weight of something as simple as a hand on his shoulder. As comraderence. As warmth.

The sun slips down, the mountains bleed before turning back. Genji says no.

\--

He’s lounging on a sofa when it happens again, that ache for warmth. That ache for touch. McCree sits down a little too close for comfort, but Genji does not shift away. 

He’s not used to not feeling like a knife.

“You okay, Shimada?” McCree asks, seeming to have felt Genji’s synthetic muscles stiffen beside him.

“Yes,” Genji responds, forcing himself to relax. A process he can force, now. Almost all the time, anyway. The confrontation with his brother had been too stressful for forced relaxation, but generally that is not the case. Generally he… 

He has control of himself. (Is that not something to consider good about this state? Something to enjoy? To take pride in? To love? He adds it to the list of things about his body he has made peace with.)

“If you say so,” McCree says, before shuffling a little closer.

\--

“Call me Jesse.”

Those words take Genji a little off-guard, because. Because he is so used to last names, to titles and call signs, and secrets and plots and plans.

“Then you must call me Genji,” he responds, not missing a beat. Out loud.

He’s a little flustered behind the mask. McCree ( _Jesse_ , he corrects himself) cannot see behind his mask. So this is fine.

“Genji,” he repeats, and grins, seemingly at nothing.

“Jesse,” Genji says back, grinning behind his mask at the sound of it between his teeth.

\--

He’d fight and die for Jesse.

Genji isn’t sure when this realization hits him, but. He doesn’t _mind_ it.

\--

Their first kiss is at the Watchpoint, because… well, they spend their downtime there. Genji almost wishes it was somewhere more romantic, like a charming local restaurant or the aftermath of a battle, but it isn’t. It’s at the watchpoint, between training sessions and intel briefings and the dozens of other, more mundane things that happen there.

Genji smiles into the kiss and feels: real. Feels: the sensation of leaping off a skyscraper. Feels: not the least bit abashed.

He knows, now, more than he had before, knows the weight of Jesse's hands, knows Jesse's favorite season is summer, his favorite color is desert-sky blue, that he takes his coffee with no milk but two sugars. He knows Jesse gets phantom feelings, but no pain from his missing arm. He knows Jesse cares about him. He knows that the time they have left is uncertain, in their line of work, but that Jesse has all of his, undoubtedly.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm always taking fic requests for overwatch stuff, see [this post](http://kanekikiss.tumblr.com/private/158447003462/tumblr_omvia3V3L31tlmnxm) on my tumblr for more info!


End file.
